


A Case Of Identity (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [95]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Illnesses, Impersonation, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Lies, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 03:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11005404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Member after member of a noble family is being dispatched to the next world – can Sherlock stop a serial killer before it is too late? And someone gets caught out in a lie.





	A Case Of Identity (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



It was still the month of May when we encountered our next case, and it arose indirectly out of the events described in the last one. Sherlock of course kept his word and declined the offer from the bank of a reward for the money's recovery, asking instead for a same-sized donation to a local children's home in the name of Miss Gladys Arlesburgh (the girl having been given her new guardian's name to avoid the publicity surrounding her late and un-lamented father). My friend received a most effusive congratulatory letter from Mrs. Arlesburgh for those actions, which I recall made him blush heartily.

The case was, as we had all hoped, instrumental in securing Henriksen's promotion to the rank of inspector. That promotion in turn meant that there was a vacancy for sergeant at our friend's station, and it was filled by a fellow who wanted to transfer in from Upminster, in Essex, as he had just married a London girl and wished to move to the area. And this young man, who went by the name of Sergeant Baldur Fotheringham-Hythe, brought with him a most curious case. It also coincided with an event in my own life which very nearly wrecked everything that I held dear!

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur (Henriksen had explained to us that his noble family had disinherited him for the heinous act of becoming a policeman, and he preferred to be known by his Christian name) called on us one day very soon after taking up his new position. He was a tall man with dark blond hair, strikingly handsome to an extent that had Mrs. Harvelle covertly mock-swooning after she had brought him up to our rooms (as if Sherlock was not bad enough in that department!). I thought that at least as far as his Christian name went, he was aptly named.

“I must tell you, gentlemen”, he said in a mellifluous tone, “that the case I lay before you today is not even one that I was personally involved in. My superiors kindly gave me a week off to arrange my moving house and getting married, and this case – or the Upminster element of it – broke during that time. But the doctor here publishes cases that are often fascinating in one aspect or another, and something about this case is decidedly strange.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together, and looked across at our guest.

“I am most intrigued”, he said. “Pray continue.”

“The case revolves around the late Mr. Septimus Baverstock, and I must start my story some ten years ago”, our guest continued. “Mr. Baverstock had married and had had six children, four of whom had survived. These were Abraham, Elijah, Isaiah and Obadiah. He was possessed of a very large estate in and around the Wiltshire village that bears his name which, had it been sold and apportioned equally, would have adequately provided for all four sons. Unfortunately – for just about everyone, as matters developed – the terms of inheritance were fixed in that virtually the whole estate had to pass to one person, and that the current holder of the title got to choose that person, the only limitation being that they must be male and of the blood lineage.”

“ _That_ could only lead to trouble”, Sherlock observed.

“Indeed”, the sergeant said. “As each boy came of age, their father placed at their disposal an identical sum of money. It soon became clear that he was testing his sons, so as to decide as to which one should eventually inherit the estate.”

“That was cruel!” I said reprovingly. The sergeant nodded.

“It proved too much for the second son, Elijah, who used his money for criminal ends in an attempt to 'get rich quick', as they say. He of course failed, then tried to steal from the estate to replace his losses; when his father found out, he was banished. Rather than risk the social disgrace of a court case, Mr. Elijah Baverstock was given a small sum of money - a pay-off, I suppose it could be said – and had left the country for Australia.”

“But he has returned?” Sherlock asked.

“I am coming to that, but yes”, the sergeant said. “The events of the past few weeks have been both sudden and worrying. Two weeks ago, Mr. Septimus Baverstock died from a fall down the stairs of his home, where he lived alone except for the servants. He was known to be violently allergic to cats, yet when the local policeman broke into the house, a cat rushed past him. Plowright – the constable – tells me that it was common knowledge that the old man did not allow cats in the grounds, let alone the house, and would shoot at any feline that he saw.”

“You do not believe that his death was an accident?” Sherlock asked.

“Three more deaths since suggest it may not have been”, the sergeant said gravely. “First, Mr. Abraham Baverstock was shot whilst waiting for a train at his home railway station of Dunbridge Station, between Salisbury and Southampton. On a country railway station in England, would you believe? And just two days after that, Mr. Isaiah Baverstock was found dead in his bedroom in London. Someone had left the gas on, and he had suffocated.”

“And I suppose that Mr. Obadiah Baverstock has also met his maker in suspicious circumstances”, I said wryly.

To my surprise the sergeant shook his head.

“Very nearly”, he said. “He is the one who lived on my old patch, and he had an extremely fortuitous escape. He had just moved into lodgings with a Mrs. Keswick when a man called to see him. The visitor's English was very poor, and the maid thought he said 'Mr. Barstock'. It chanced that there was a fellow living in one of the other rooms called Mr. Norman Bostock, and the maid duly directed the visitor to Room Two rather than Room Five. The following day, Mr. Bostock was found shot dead in an alley, just off his way to his work as a bank clerk.”

“And Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?” Sherlock asked.

“He has gone to his late father's house in Wiltshire, where he has a round-the-clock police guard.”

“That will not stop a determined killer”, Sherlock observed. “Now, you said that Mr. Elijah Baverstock was back in the country?”

The sergeant nodded.

“We checked the shipping offices, and one of them confirmed that he left Melbourne a couple of months ago”, the sergeant said. “He was recorded as a passenger on a ship that docked at Plymouth just days before his father's death. And he had been staying in the village when his father died.”

The last man standing, I thought.

“Naturally he was 'invited' to come in for questioning”, the sergeant continued. “He said that his father had sent him a telegram from England asking him to come home, though when he went to see him, the old man denied having done any such thing. Though to be fair, his father's memory was going, so the old man's servants said, and when we questioned Mr. Obadiah Baverstock later, he admitted – reluctantly, I was told – that his father _had_ been inclined to seek a reconciliation, though there had been no mention of a telegram.”

“And Mr. Elijah disappeared soon afterwards?” I hazarded. The sergeant nodded.

“His landlady in the village said he _claimed_ that someone had broken into his room, but I think that was just a cover story”, he said. “Of course, he has not been seen since.”

“What are Mr. Obadiah's plans?” Sherlock asked.

“To sell up and get out as quickly as possible”, the sergeant said. “Unfortunately a clause in the will means that he does not actually inherit until a full month after his father's death, so he still has at least two weeks to go.”

“And to stay alive”, I put in. 

Sherlock seemed lost in thought. We both waited for him to speak.

“I think it would be a good idea to interview the landlady in Upminster – Mrs. Keswick, you called her. Then we might go down to Wiltshire. There is no immediate hurry if Mr. Obadiah cannot sell up for two weeks, as you have said.”

“Unless his brother gets to him first”, I pointed out.

“Oh, I fully expect there to be an attempt on Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's life over the next two weeks”, Sherlock said casually. 

“What?” the policeman almost yelled.

“Calm down, sergeant”, Sherlock said soothingly. “I doubt very much that it will succeed. No, our first priority is to see poor Mrs. Keswick.”

“Why do you call her 'poor'?” I asked, curiously. He looked askance at me.

“Would you wish to stay in a boarding-house where people get murdered?” he asked.

Ah. He made a good point.

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur arranged for us to visit Mrs. Keswick two days after his call. Unfortunately when we woke that morning, someone was not in god shape. Sherlock had been unusually quiet the night before, and this morning he looked terrible.

“You have gastroenteritis”, I said, after a quick examination. “Lots of fluids, no alcohol, and lots of rest.”

He tried to croak something at me, but his voice had all but gone, and instead he pointed feebly to the calendar.

“I know that we were due to meet that landlady today, but you cannot go in this state”, I said firmly. “Absolutely not!” I added when he looked set to protest. “Mrs. Harvelle can bring you up your liquids, and you can write down the questions you wanted to ask Mrs. Keswick. And yes, I will make sure I put them exactly as you phrase them.”

He smiled weakly at me, and gestured for a notepad and pencil. I placed both by his side, and went downstairs to tell our gracious landlady that she had an invalid on her hands, at least until I returned. 

+~+~+

Mrs. Emily Keswick's house lay in Athelstan Mews, some little way south of Euston Station. It was a well-to-do area, and I noted at once the large 'Rooms To Let' sign in the window of her house, number seventeen. A maid admitted me, and I was quickly shown in to the lady's room. 

Mrs. Keswick was clearly a lady of quality, as she refrained from any disappointment that it was only I who was visiting her, not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself. After she had expressed wishes for his swift recovery, I turned to the questions that Sherlock had written for me.

“These are the things that my friend wished to ask you”, I said. “First, he wanted as complete a description as possible of the two men involved in the case, as well as the potential murderer.”

She shuddered at that word.

“It is difficult”, she said (and unlike some, she had the good sense to speak slowly so that I could note down her words) “because I saw all three fairly briefly. Mr. Bostock had moved in only the week before, I recall. He was young, well-presented and eager to please. Quite friendly, he would talk about anything and everything. He mentioned that he was courting a young lady in the area, but he did not say her name.”

She let me catch up with my notes before continuing. 

“Mr. Baverstock was quite the opposite”, she said, with a faint shudder. “I would not go as far to call him rude _per se_ , but he seemed to have very little time for anyone. He was about forty years of age, and seemed to suffer from arthritis.”

I looked up from my notes, distracted.

“ _Seemed_ to suffer?” I asked. The phraseology seemed odd. She nodded. 

“He always shuffled everywhere, but one day I happened to hear him coming down the stairs, and he was walking quite normally”, she said. “I personally think that he played it up so that he could be more miserable!”

I smiled at that, and finished writing.

“The man who called was young, and he apparently spoke very little”, she said, “although Betty was sure that he had a foreign accent. I remember that it was a hot day, yet he was covered up with layer after layer, so possibly he came from a hot country. And he had a strong tan.”

“How do you know that if he was covered up?” I queried. 

“That was the other thing that struck me as odd”, she said. “Betty was cleaning the front room, and spoke to him out of the big bay window. I saw him from my room, which is the other one facing out onto the street. When he left, he had taken his gloves off, and his hands were sunburnt. I suppose upon reflection that I may be presuming his youth, although he certainly moved very quickly. Betty thought that he was young by his walk.”

“So Mr. Bostock was not in his room at the time?” I asked. 

“I had thought him to be, but he must have gone out without me seeing him. But he did have a photograph of himself there.”

She sounded aggravated that one of her tenants had 'slipped his leash'. I smiled as I caught up with my notes.

“Did Mr. Bostock and Mr. Baverstock ever meet?” I said, asking Sherlock's next question.

“Not to my knowledge”, she said. “My tenants tend to prefer to have their meals served in their own rooms, and the layout of the building is such that Mr. Baverstock had his own exit at the back into Æthelflaed Mews, which he seemed to prefer to the front door. They certainly had nothing in common except, unfortunately for one of them, their similar names.”

I wrote that down, then hesitated.

“Mrs. Keswick”, I said, “I would like to thank you for your answers to my friend's questions thus far. He had one more question, but he asked me to forewarn you that it is of a slightly personal nature. If you find it intrusive or just do not wish to answer it, please say so.”

“Of course”, she said, looking nervously at me.

“How has business been since Mr. Baverstock moved out?” I asked.

For an awful moment I thought she was about to break down in tears, but she managed to hold things together, although it took a visible effort. 

“Awful!” she admitted. “Three of my four other tenants have moved out, and I am sure that Miss Foreman is only staying because she cannot afford anything else, or at least anything that is so near to her work at the railway station.”

“Thank you”, I said. “I promise that we will keep you informed as to developments in the case.”

+~+~+

I reported my findings to Sherlock when I returned, not so much because I wanted to, but because I felt that he would be unhappy at me keeping things from him just because I felt he was too ill. He had only one request arising from my visit and it was much what I had expected; I was to send a telegram from him to his brother Lucius, to ask him to covertly assist Mrs. Keswick until the fuss had died down. Mercifully the London journalist then as now had an attention span marginally shorter than that of the average may-fly, so she might soon be over her own problems.

Sherlock's recovery was slower than I had hoped, and when I returned four days later after having had to travel all the way into Surrey to see one rich (and obnoxious) patient, it was to find that he had fallen asleep in the fireside chair. I smiled and pulled up the blanket which had slipped down off of him, and stoked up the fire. Then I turned round – and saw something on the floor which made my heart sink.

Moving quietly, I went downstairs and asked Mrs. Harvelle if any visitors had come to our apartment since I had left that morning. On being answered in the negative my blood duly boiled, but I thanked her and went quietly back upstairs to where my friend was still sleeping. He continued to doze for another hour, and I was finishing a late tea when he finally awoke. I went across and pressed the bell.

“Mrs. Harvelle has been keeping something warm for you”, I said. “Doubtless she will bring it up in a few minutes.”

He looked around the room for a moment, apparently confused, before smiling and approaching the table. I waited until he had sat down before pouncing. 

“Did you have a good day today?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I will feel better when I can get on with this case again”, he muttered. 

“Where did you go?”

He froze, and looked at me guiltily.

“Pardon?”

“Where did you go? I know that you went out today, despite my telling you not to. There is a small mud-patch on the carpet that was not there this morning, and Mrs. Harvelle tells me that you had no visitors.”

He stared at the tablecloth, clearly ashamed at having been caught out.

“I went to see someone who Bacchus found for me”, he muttered, still not looking at me. “I needed him to do something before going down to Wiltshire.”

It was rare indeed that I felt superior to the great detective, and I am ashamed to say that I did milk the moment somewhat. I stared at him for a while before quitting the table and taking my own seat by the fire, which I poked viciously.

“I wish that you had trusted me”, I said quietly. “I do not mind you getting out for a short walk perhaps, but the fact that you did so without clearing it with me.....”

I was unaware that he had left the table and moved to beside me, and I almost jumped at his appearance. 

“I would trust you with my life”, he said quietly. “But I had to put this in place. I am sorry, John.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, and although I was still feeling moody enough to continue my huff, he was still a sick man, and he was my friend. Besides, I knew full well that if I turned to look at him, I would get the full force of those kicked puppy eyes (or even worse, the Quivering Lip), and that my resolve would fold faster than a seaside deck-chair in a tornado.

“I understand”, I said stiffly. “But I am going with you, and if you show any sign of being unwell, it is straight back to London for you!”

“I promise to follow my doctor's orders”, he smiled.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Harvelle entered with Sherlock's evening meal (not one of the maids, I noted, which meant that she herself was keeping an eye on him). She was obviously aware that there was an unusual tension in the room, but God bless the woman, she refrained from commenting on it. She loaded up her tray with my dirty dishes and left us alone.

+~+~+

It was two more days before I judged Sherlock well enough to travel. I had expected him to push to go sooner, but my catching him out seemed to have shocked him into submission, and he did not utter a word of complaint.

Getting to the village of Baverstock from London reminded me of the wonders of the modern age. I had experienced stagecoach travel but once in my life, and such a bone-shaking experience should in my opinion, be restricted to fairgrounds and museums. And that was with the 'luxury' of an inside seat! I wondered idly what would one day replace the trustworthy steam train, as we sped along the line from Waterloo to the cathedral city of Salisbury. Hopefully not one of those strange 'horseless carriages' or 'automobiles', which I had read a certain Mr. Karl Benz was now manufacturing in Germany. Allowing just about any Tom, Dick or Harry out onto the roads seemed to me a certain recipe for disaster!

Sherlock looked a lot better today, though I silently determined that he was still resting once we got back to London. We changed at Salisbury for a local train, and got out two stops later at Dinton, the nearest station to Baverstock. From there it was a gentle cab ride through the Wiltshire countryside, until we arrived at the gates of Baverstock Hall. A policeman was standing guard there, and I was a little concerned that he did not even look up from his newspaper until we were almost upon him. If this was the level of 'protection' that Mr. Obadiah Baverstock had been given, then he might well not live to come into his inheritance. 

There was a second and rather more alert policeman at the house door, which was a little better, and we were shown into the main room where a third policeman was trying to calm a clearly over-excited middle-aged gentleman. The former looked up as we entered, and I could swear that there was gratitude in that look.

“Constable George Plowright”, he said. “You must be the gentlemen from London. Thank the Lord you are both here!”

“Has something happened?” I asked anxiously.

“My brother is in the village!” the little man almost shrieked. “He is less than a mile from here, and these policemen do nothing!”

“English law does tend to frown on its officers arresting people merely because they are under suspicion”, Sherlock said airily. “Some trifling nonsense called Magna Carta, if I recall correctly. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Obadiah Baverstock?”

“Not for much longer, if I get murdered”, the man grumbled. “You must be the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes that I have heard so much about.”

“A man has been reported asking questions about the new lord in the great house”, Constable Plowright explained. “Fred down at the Dog & Duck came and told me; he thought it was important when the guy came two days in a row. We posted a man in the place there today, but he didn't show.”

Waiting in a pub all day, I thought wryly. Nice work if you can get it.

“So your brother is in the area?” Sherlock said to Mr. Baverstock. “Excellent!”

The man stared back at him in confusion.

“How precisely is that 'excellent', sir?” he asked testily. 

“Tell me”, Sherlock said, “is it true that in the event of your death, the estate goes to your brother?”

The man hesitated before answering.

“Yes”, he said. 

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

“The rules of the estate allowed my father to bequeath the whole thing, except for minor bequests to servants, to just one of his sons”, Mr. Baverstock explained. “Father and the family lawyer had to make the choice between them, but if there was only one son left, then he got everything.”

“And the estate has to be kept in the Baverstock family?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course”, the man said, clearly confused. 

Sherlock smiled at him. 

“I must be brutally frank with you, Mr. Baverstock”, he said. “In cases like this, the would-be murderer has all the advantages. He can pick the time and place of his attack, whilst those defending the target must be on guard all the time and everywhere. I had thought our only advantage was that the attack would have to come before the month is up, and that still leaves us over a week. But with what you have told me, we can force your attacker's hand.”

“How so?”, Mr. Baverstock asked, clearly puzzled. Sherlock turned to the constable. 

“In a conversation in the local tavern, which you should ensure is overheard, you will tell a fellow officer that the two gentlemen who have arrived today have brought news of Mr. Obadiah Baverstock's son Oliver, recently arrived from the North to London, and that the new lord of the manor is planning to use the powers of the estate to will everything on to him immediately”, Sherlock said. “You will say that Mr. Baverstock is expecting the family lawyer down tomorrow afternoon, and since his son is safely in hiding, he himself will be perfectly safe once the document is signed. Lawyers acting for the son will then sell the estate once the period is up. I have no doubt that if that man at the inn is indeed your brother, he will be maintaining a presence in the village, and the news will swiftly reach him. He will have but one night to react.”

He turned back to our host.

“This involves no danger for you, sir”, he said. “You must spend the night locked away at the back of the house. I will pretend to be you in your bed, with the window slightly open. I will be armed, as will the doctor, who will stand guard outside the window.....”

“No!” Mr. Baverstock said, much to my surprise. “This is my own brother trying to kill me, and in my own damn house! You may hide behind the screen in my room, but I will be in my own bed. And armed.”

I fully expected Sherlock to object to that, but to my surprise he nodded. 

“One must respect the ancient tenet that an Englishman's home is his castle”, he said sonorously. “Very well. Though I doubt that the gun will be needed. I do not think your attacker would risk alerting the servants with a gunshot.”

“We shall see!” Mr. Baverstock said grimly.

+~+~+

I was fortunate that the laundry-room at the back of the house offered an excellent view of the slightly open bedroom window, so that I had some shelter for my vigil. I knew that one of the other constables was on the roof, watching for anyone approaching the house, and a second one was patrolling the grounds, Constable Plowright being inside the house in the room adjoining Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. 

Idiot, I thought, as the patrolling constable was caught in the moonlight, albeit against the wall next to the one with the open window. I stared again at that window; it was on the first floor, but the house was covered in ivy, and I knew, having tried it earlier, that it would support the weight of a man..... 

My musings were interrupted by the sound of a sudden gunshot from inside the house, and a cry of pain from the open window. I gasped. How on earth had the man gotten inside? I tore round to the front door, opening it with the key which I had been given earlier and racing up the stairs two at a time until I reached Mr. Baverstock's bedroom. And there, lying prone and bleeding on the floor, was... a policeman?

I stared in confusion. Next to me, Sherlock sighed.

“He did not have a gun, Mr. Baverstock”, he said patiently.

“He could have had a knife”, the man said petulantly. “I have the right to defend myself!”

Constable Plowright burst into the room, followed quickly by his two fellow policemen. I frowned. I had been sure there had been only three officers keeping guard, so who was lying on the floor?

“The attacker dressed himself as a policeman”, Sherlock explained, pointing to the body on the floor. He was still breathing, though it was very ragged. Sherlock gently turned him over, and Mr. Baverstock nodded.

“Elijah. That is him.”

“Well, that just about wraps it up!”, Constable Kennedy beamed. “Let's get him down to the station.”

“May I?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the handcuffs the young constable had produced. He looked puzzled, but handed them over.

“I suppose so, sir”, he said. 

Sherlock went to move back to the prone man, and in doing so he passed Mr. Obadiah Baverstock. There was a sudden click, and our host was handcuffed. The policeman stared at Sherlock as if he had gone mad.

“You want me to arrest the _victim_?” Constable Plowright gasped. Sherlock smiled.

“Oh no, constable”, he said. “I want you to take in a killer. This man has killed four times and tonight attempted a fifth murder. Gentlemen, may I present a man of many names, two of the latest of which were Mr. Norman Bostock and Mr. Obadiah Baverstock.”

I do not think that I have ever seen a transformation such as the one which befell the handcuffed man's features. He went from puzzled captive to enraged bull, and it took the strength of all three officers to pin him down. A second set of cuffs had to be forced onto him before he submitted.

“I was so bloody close!” he snarled. “But at least I put an end to a line of useless toffs like this twit here!”

Sherlock shook his head and leaned over to the prone man who, to my surprise, got up without any help. Only then did I recognize the red spot on his white shirt for fake blood. He grinned at us both. 

“I do not let potential suspects wield guns in my cases”, Sherlock said to the prisoner. “At least, not unless I have made certain that they only carry blanks.”

The prisoner screamed in frustration and again tried to launch himself at Sherlock, and the policemen had to exert some effort in order to drag him away. I stared after them all in amazement.

“Come”, Sherlock said with a smile, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I think the soon-to-be new owner of this ancestral pile might be treating us all to a drink.”

“Or four!” I muttered.

+~+~+

“The killer knew someone who knew Mr. Obadiah Baverstock”, Sherlock began, “and he chanced to learn of the terms of that evil will. He saw an excellent chance to replace Mr. Obadiah, inherit the estate and become rich beyond his wildest dreams. He introduced himself to the man as 'Mr. Norman Bostock, since even then he intended to use the similarity of surnames later on in his evil schemes.”

We were sat downstairs, each of us needing a stiff drink after I had given Mr. Elijah Baverstock a quick check-up. The man's shirt was ruined, but somehow I suspected that he did not mind that overly much.

“Mr. Bostock – we have to call him something, since we may never know his real name - knows that Mr. Elijah here is abroad, and that if there were to be any suspicious deaths, then he would have an obvious motive”, Sherlock went on. “He fakes a telegram from Mr. Septimus Baverstock recalling the wayward son, and once the latter is back in England, only then do the deaths start. He is also careful to ensure they are only carried out when Mr. Elijah does not have an alibi. Thus Septimus, Abraham and Isaiah Baverstock are dispatched into the next world.”

“On the pretext of keeping his 'friend' safe, he persuades the man to move lodgings, himself taking a room at the same establishment. Quite probably they were to move again soon afterwards, except Mr. Bostock's plans involved moving his 'friend' into the next world along with the rest of his family, and then assuming his identity. His choice of name was quite deliberate, as avoiding suspicion necessitated it to seem that 'Mr. Bostock' was killed in error for 'Mr. Baverstock'. Hence a fourth Baverstock had been dispatched from this world, his identity having been assumed by the villain that we caught tonight.”

“I was particularly struck by Mrs. Keswick's description of the men as so very different”, he said. “It sounded like we were almost being encouraged to take in those differences. So I laid a trap for him. I found Mr. Elijah here and persuaded him to visit the village and ask a lot of questions. As I had foretold, news of that quickly reached Mr. Bostock. My offer of a trap seemed an excellent conclusion to his schemes; he could shoot dead the only man who could identify him as an impostor whilst claiming self-defence, and he would be home free. Instead of which, he is looking to the long drop at the end of a short rope.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, our host said. “It has been more of an experience returning to the Old Country than I would ever have expected, and I look forward to returning to New South Wales as soon as the whole estate is sorted out.”

“And now we must adjourn to a train back to London”, Sherlock said with a sigh, “or my doctor will be laying down the law to me about over-exerting myself. He is such a tyrant, you know!

I scowled at him. 

+~+~+

Next, a batman is broken – and Apollo bestows a gift on a deserving man.


End file.
